


Accommodation

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/F, Hair Kink, Multiple Orgasms, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-25 00:27:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4939696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tsubaki tilts her head to the side, offers a smile as gentle as it is deliberately framed. The sunlight streaming in behind her turns her hair to shadow, illuminates the curve of her clinging dress into a halo along the curve of her waist and the outline of her hips. Azusa can feel her heart skid in anticipation." Azusa appreciates how accommodating Tsubaki can be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accommodation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluenarcbird](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bluenarcbird).



Tsubaki shows up right on time.

It’s a trait Azusa appreciates in the other woman, even if she suspects in the unspoken part of her thoughts that this particular action is more for her own benefit than a natural part of Tsubaki’s personality. She knows how to recognize a weapon adopting the behaviors most appealing to their partner, and Tsubaki is one of the most mentally flexible weapons she has ever known. Still, deliberate or not, it’s nice to be catered to, nice to know that when Tsubaki had said “Five thirty?” as she passed Azusa in the halls of the Academy earlier that she  _meant_  five thirty.

“Hey there,” Azusa says as she opens the door, not waiting for visual confirmation of her visitor before she speaks. She lacks many acquaintances here, lacks a surplus of friends in the first place and has still fewer in the city she hasn’t lived in for years; there’s only two people it could be with any likelihood, and Marie has never been one for showing up unannounced.

Tsubaki tilts her head to the side, offers a smile as gentle as it is deliberately framed. The sunlight streaming in behind her turns her hair to shadow, illuminates the line of her clinging dress into a halo along the curve of her waist and the outline of her hips; she looks like a model, a picture-perfect demonstration of the perfect weapon, composed and calm and willing to gracefully submit to anything her meister asks of her.

Azusa can feel her heart skid on anticipation. “Come in,” she says, and steps back out of the entryway and into the hallway as Tsubaki smiles herself through the door and eases it shut behind her. Azusa has the advantage of height, even without the heels she adopts while she’s working; when Tsubaki pauses to step out of her boots the difference is only more noticable. Azusa tries and mostly fails to not consider the dangerously low neckline of Tsubaki’s dress; from the way Tsubaki’s smile curls a little sharper when she straightens from her motion, the attention does not go unnoticed.

“It’s a lovely evening,” is all Tsubaki says, as sweetly polite as ever. Azusa steps to the side of the hallway without responding and lets Tsubaki move past her into the apartment. It’s as clean as Azusa’s apartment always is, her few possessions laid in their proper places without any need for conscious thought on her part, and Tsubaki doesn’t waste any time looking over the dark clean of the countertops or the laptop centered in front of one of the chairs at the table. She takes a right turn instead, moves as easily into the dark of Azusa’s bedroom as she did in the golden glow of the sunlight outside, and when Azusa trails her it’s left to her to flip the lightswitch and illuminate the familiar shapes in the space.

Tsubaki has her hands in her hair, her fingers working over the tied-up weight of the dark strands as she glances back at Azusa. Her smile is still intact, still warm in her eyes, but her position is drawing the fabric of her dress taut over her shoulders and over the weight of her breasts, and Azusa’s eyes keep wandering away from the polite kindness in Tsubaki’s expression to outline the far more interesting curves of her body instead.

“Do you need a moment?” Tsubaki asks as her fingers drag the length of her hair free of its tie, as she shakes her head to let the dark locks cascade into a curtain over her shoulders. The shadow of her hair makes her features sharper, brings out the dark color of her eyes; Azusa adjusts her glasses, steps farther forward into the room and tries to remind herself that of the two of them she is still the one with more clothes on.

“I’m fine,” Azusa insists, her voice skidding sharp with more determination than accuracy. Tsubaki’s smile goes wider, teeters on the edge of laughter, but she doesn’t pull away when Azusa reaches out for the night-black of her hair, instead shuts her eyes and hums appreciation when the other woman lets her touch drag heavy over the strands.

“You have beautiful hair,” Azusa says, the compliment made easy by the truth of it. There’s a deep satisfaction to the silky slide of Tsubaki’s hair across her fingers, to the feel of  the locks so smooth they seem to be one singular entity instead of composed of individual strands. It stands in contrast to Azusa’s own hair, kept short as much by the necessity of too-fine locks prone to breaking as from a desire for an aggressively professional image; better to have the beauty of longer hair this way, she thinks, in a form she can appreciate without tipping over the edge into narcissism.

“I’m so glad you think so,” Tsubaki says, the words gentle with sincerity, but her eyes are as dark as the sheen of light caught in the strands of her hair, and when Azusa’s gaze tips down to skim Tsubaki’s lips there’s a smile waiting there already, slow and shadowy and so knowing as to leave no doubt of her willingness. Azusa takes a breath, feels some of the always-there tension in her shoulders go slack with relief, and then Tsubaki reaches up, fits her fingers against the edge of Azusa’s high collar to urge her in closer while she tips her head up to meet the oncoming contact. Tsubaki tastes like peppermint, a clean sweet bite on Azusa’s tongue, but she smells like flowers, something far-off and faintly nostalgic although it’s impossible to put a name to it. Tsubaki hums, takes a half-step closer; her knee bumps Azusa’s, fits between the other woman’s legs as Tsubaki’s hands slide up over her shoulders to feel out the laid-in texture of the fabric like she’s appreciating the friction more than anxious to peel it off.

Tsubaki’s patience is infinite, as far as Azusa can tell; it’s part of what makes her such a good weapon partner, what has kept her list of potential meisters far longer than Azusa’s own severely abridged list. There are times when Azusa admires that patience, appreciates it from a distance of knowing she can emulate it no more than her hair can attain the glossy weight of the other woman’s. But when Tsubaki curves in against her and tips her hip like she’s offering the angle of her waist for the slide of Azusa’s fingers, Azusa has to admit that there are times when patience might be slightly overrated.

“Here,” she says against the soft of Tsubaki’s lips, biting the word into the harsh edges of a command as she finds the tie of Tsubaki’s dress and closes her hand into a fist on the fabric to prevent the too-hasty untying that will come if she doesn’t. “The bed.”

“Right,” Tsubaki agrees, a little faster than Azusa expected, and takes a sideways step that drags Azusa in her wake instead of the other way around. Azusa loses her usually-steady footing, stumbles for a moment of distraction for the way Tsubaki’s movement catches their legs together, and when Tsubaki turns back it’s to catch her hands at Azusa’s collar, to make deliberate handholds of the pale cloth and pull the other woman down against her mouth.

Perhaps less patient than Azusa thought, then.

“You have lovely clothes,” Tsubaki volunteers, pushing Azusa down by her collar to sit heavily at the edge of the bed. The wood of the frame catches at her knees, suggests the possibility of a bruise had she landed farther back, but Tsubaki’s guidance in this was as unerring as her politeness, her push setting Azusa just far enough back to allow space for Tsubaki’s knee on the mattress alongside her. The angle draws Tsubaki’s dress high up her thigh, bares enough of her leg that Azusa can see the top edge of dark stocking against pale skin, and there is no amount of restraint that could keep Azusa’s fingers from finding out that line of dark-on-light with the friction of her fingertips. Tsubaki doesn’t offer a protest; she’s smiling instead, sliding in closer like she’s urging Azusa’s fingers higher, and when Azusa catches her touch under the edge of elastic Tsubaki reciprocates with a slide of her palms against Azusa’s shirt, against the open line of her collar to catch at the dark of her vest.

“You always dress so well,” Tsubaki says as her fingers skim the weight of Azusa’s shirt, press the texture of the fabric against the flushed heat of the other woman’s breasts like the motion might be an accident. “If I were taller I would imitate your style.”

“Would you?” Azusa says, clinging to the edge in her voice to distract herself from how warm Tsubaki’s skin is as she slides the other woman’s stocking down to her knee. “You have your own style, you know.”

“That’s sweet,” Tsubaki purrs as if the blandly objective statement was truly loaded with the compliments that stick in Azusa’s throat. Azusa’s shirt is giving way, the buttons undoing themselves under the gentle push of Tsubaki’s fingers, but she’s only very distantly aware of the tension of the fabric easing as the other woman leans in closer and breathes warm against Azusa’s cheekbone so her glasses fog into heat.

“It’s not,” Azusa denies, bracing herself against the bed as Tsubaki’s hands push her vest open and she works the other woman’s stocking down to her ankle. She leaves it there, lets her fingers draw back up without the interruption of fabric, listens to the way Tsubaki’s breath hitches as Azusa’s touch pushes in higher, the way the hold at her collar goes taut and bracing instead of framed with a goal. Azusa tips her head down, her glasses clearing, and she’s the one to start the kiss this time, fitting her mouth against Tsubaki’s with less grace but more intention than the other woman usually demonstrates. Tsubaki hums against her lips, satisfaction turned into almost-music, and when she licks against Azusa’s mouth Azusa surrenders to the unstated request. Tsubaki’s hand comes up to her hair, braces her in place while the taste of peppermint fills her mouth, and Azusa’s fingers are going indecently high, Tsubaki’s free hand is fumbling at Azusa’s shirtfront, and neither of them are hesitating in the least.

“I’m not  _sweet_ ,” Azusa reiterates, the word turning sharp on the edge of self-deprecation as she tightens her hand against Tsubaki’s thigh and draws a groan of anticipation from the other woman’s throat.

“It’s not an insult,” Tsubaki says against her mouth, her fingers undoing Azusa’s shirt and finding their way underneath to drag across flushed skin. Azusa shudders at the friction over her ribcage, ticklish in spite of her best effort to fight back the reflex, and Tsubaki laughs in a burst of bright sound as her fingers skip up to catch at the soft of Azusa’s bra instead. “And I think you are, even if you don’t agree.”

“Don’t tease me,” Azusa says, pushing the words to irritation around the flush of embarrassment cresting over her cheeks. When she stretches her fingers out she can skim the edge of Tsubaki’s panties, the lacy edge of them always higher than Azusa expects them to be; she doubts they are providing coverage as much as ornamentation for Tsubaki’s skin. “You’re not as nice as everyone thinks you are.”

“Mm,” Tsubaki hums, agreement not-quite confirmed on the amusement in her throat, lets her hand in Azusa’s hair trail down over the slope of her breasts and the dip of her cleavage while her other traces out to the clasp at the back. “Do you mind?”

“You know I don’t,” Azusa tries to protest, tries to growl, but Tsubaki is unfastening the clasp of her bra and she’s breathing too fast, distracted past composure by the drag of Tsubaki’s fingers down over her skin and inside the edge of her clothing to drag for a moment across a sensitive nipple. Her voice jumps breathlessly high, her back arches to lean her forward, and Tsubaki is tipping in to counter her, smiling so warm that Azusa can hear her delight in the strain of every exhale.

“Let’s get you out of these nice clothes,” Tsubaki suggests, punctuates with a drag of her palm precisely calculated to shatter Azusa’s attention, and Azusa is left flushed and taut all through her body while Tsubaki eases her tangled clothes off with more grace in the movement than ought to be possible. Vest and shirt go as one, Azusa’s bra follows immediately after, and when Tsubaki leans forward Azusa is borne down to the bed as much by the promise of Tsubaki’s hair sliding over her shoulders to skim across her skin as by the gentle, unshakable suggestion of the hand at her shoulder.

“This isn’t fair,” Azusa says as the mattress takes her weight, as Tsubaki slides down over her to slide her pants open and tug them off her hips. Her resistance is verbal only -- she’s willing enough to lift her weight so Tsubaki can pull her slacks down her body to puddle at the floor -- but she offers it anyway, retreating to near-petulance rather than wasting time with self-consciousness about her current state of undress. “Come back here.”

“I’m sorry,” Tsubaki says, her tone pure innocence even as she puts the tie of her dress in easy reach of Azusa’s fingers and completely belies her claimed confusion. Azusa reaches for the knot, fits her fingers into the loop of it; when she pulls it comes undone in one slick slide of fabric, the tension holding Tsubaki’s dress closed giving way as if the other woman’s clothing shares Azusa’s immediate goals. Tsubaki laughs, undoes the last of the knot, and when she shifts her shoulders this time it’s her dress that falls open, the fabric slipping to bare the clean line of her throat down to the curve of uncovered breasts and the dark line of lace against her hip. “Is this better?”

“Of course it is,” Azusa says, a little bit petulant and a little bit purring, and reaches to settle her fingers at Tsubaki’s waist and guide the other woman down to the sheets with her. Tsubaki shrugs out of her dress, leaves it to catch forgotten under their legs, and then she’s tilting herself down to the mattress, the shadows of her hair tangling at her shoulders like a tantalizing curtain for the pale of her skin. Azusa turns towards her, uncanny magnetism drawing her to press in closer, and Tsubaki reaches for her in sync, her fingers finding and sweeping up along the line of Azusa’s back. Azusa catches the edge of Tsubaki’s panties, pulls with more effect than elegance to strip them off, and Tsubaki hooks her thumb under the other side to fall into a single shared motion with Azusa’s actions; for a moment it’s as if they’re weapon and meister, the connection of the movement satisfying and disorienting at once. It makes Azusa’s skin flush hot, drags her exhale into the shape of a groan, and Tsubaki smiles in her periphery, the curve of her lips offering amusement and understanding at once as she draws her knees up and free of the clothing. Azusa tips back as Tsubaki falls back to the bed, her attention lingering against the line of Tsubaki’s waist, the hot inside of her thighs as she shifts; her focus is skidding, there’s too much to see all at once, and Tsubaki is smiling at her again, turning her head so her hair falls free of her shoulder to spread across the sheets instead.

“Azusa?” she asks, the name a question, her tone a suggestion.

“Yeah,” Azusa says, and it’s not an answer but her movement is, when she reaches to urge Tsubaki’s stockinged knee wide enough to make room for her shoulders. Tsubaki obliges her as she always does, spreads her legs into an invitation as she reaches for Azusa’s shoulder and feathers her fingers through the other woman’s hair. Azusa sets her fingers against the angle of Tsubaki’s knee, leans in to press her lips against the warmth of pale skin. Tsubaki smells like flowers, this close, the sweet of that unidentified perfume clinging to her skin like it’s been coaxed out on the heat flushing her pink under Azusa’s mouth. Azusa kisses up, skipping half-inch steps, working her way up Tsubaki’s thigh as the other woman hums anticipation into the air, until Azusa’s hands are bracing Tsubaki’s knees wide and Tsubaki’s hand in Azusa’s hair is a steadying hold instead of a guiding one. Azusa presses close, breathes in against Tsubaki’s skin, and then she catches her lips at Tsubaki’s clit and hums deliberately delicate vibration over the other woman’s skin. Tsubaki shudders, arches in towards her as her hold on Azusa’s hair drags hard with intention, and Azusa licks against her, a slow slide of her tongue to draw the first flash of friction as long as she can. Tsubaki’s hot against her lips, slick before Azusa even tastes her, and she offers a low shiver of reaction to the other woman’s actions, her hands flexing into fists as she trembles into expectation against the bed.

 _You’re beautiful_ , Azusa thinks, but she doesn’t pull away to speak; she’ll have words later, can find the framework of coherency some other time, when her skin isn’t flushing so hot she can feel every shift of the sheets under her like a deliberate touch. Her hands are too-tight, she’s certain she’ll leave fingerprints against Tsubaki’s skin, but from the way the other woman is arching up towards her she doesn’t care, bruises are the last and least important thing on her mind.

“Azusa,” Tsubaki says, voice dropping low and resonant as Azusa rarely hears it, the sound shadowed to match the fall of her undone hair. “More” as if Azusa needed to be told, as if she hasn’t learned perfectly well what Tsubaki likes, hasn’t memorized the pattern of the slow increase of sensation that trembles the most pleasure against the curve of Tsubaki’s spine. Azusa lowers her head by an inch, abandons the slow friction she’s been offering Tsubaki’s clit to lick against her entrance instead, and Tsubaki purrs encouragement, one hand dropping from Azusa’s hair before Azusa can think to reach up and steal the attempted motion with her own fingertips. Tsubaki doesn’t protest, lets Azusa’s fingers settle into the satisfaction of friction against her clit, and Azusa presses down at the same time that her tongue dips in, slides into the slick-smooth heat of Tsubaki’s body as she grinds sensation out under her fingers. Tsubaki shudders, arches against her touch, and Azusa pushes harder, angles her wrist into the slow, deep pressure that Tsubaki likes best. That’s enough to bring the other woman’s breathing faster on its own, but Azusa’s thrusting with her tongue as well, reaching for as much sensation as she can get while Tsubaki tightens around her, while she feels the tremors of appreciation running up along the other woman’s thighs. There’s a hand still in her hair, working through the strands with what Azusa is fairly sure is unconscious habit; it makes Azusa almost-laugh, spills vibration out against Tsubaki’s skin, and Tsubaki tenses for a moment, her body drawing taut into giveaway anticipation before she subsides to the bed. Azusa knows that reaction, knows what to do with it, and when she moves it’s all at once, speeding the press of her fingers and pushing Tsubaki’s leg wide to allow her to press in closer and deeper than she did before. Tsubaki stutters an inhale, the sound drawn long with expectation, and Azusa twists her wrist and lets Tsubaki tremble herself into orgasm, the shivers of pleasure leaving her shaky against the bed. Azusa holds that point of pressure, stays where she is until Tsubaki’s hand in her hair goes slack; even then, when she draws away to sit up Tsubaki is looking hazy with heat, her eyes blown so dark on satisfaction Azusa can’t make out their color.

“Ah,” Tsubaki sighs, shutting her eyes for a moment. There’s a smile at her lips, her hand fallen to press against the flat of her stomach; she could be a statue, Azusa thinks, if not for the human flush glowing from under her skin. “You’re very good at that.”

Azusa adjusts her glasses, habit and self-consciousness colluding to hide her behind the glare off the lenses for a moment. “I should hope so,” she says as Tsubaki pushes up onto an elbow and reaches to draw her hair over her shoulder and twist it into a temporary knot. “I excel at what I choose to pursue.”

“Lucky me,” Tsubaki says, and her hand is on Azusa’s shoulder, she’s pushing the other woman back down to the mattress before Azusa can parse what’s happening. Azusa lands hard, enough to be disoriented for a moment, and Tsubaki’s hands are against her knees, fingers catching against Azusa’s panties to push them aside rather than bothering with stripping them off entirely. Azusa takes a breath, startled into the beginnings of another blush, and Tsubaki’s fingers slide into her, a pair at once and without warning, and instead of blushing Azusa is groaning, her spine arching her off the bed while she throws a hand out to grab for some kind of stability at Tsubaki’s hip or shoulder or waist.

“I don’t think I’m too bad myself,” Tsubaki says conversationally. Azusa’s hand lands at her arm, fingers pressing in hard like Azusa will be able to brace herself this way, but Tsubaki doesn’t notice, at least not to admit it. She’s reaching out instead, her free hand cupping the weight of Azusa’s breast, and as one hand slides deeper the other is finding Azusa’s nipple and pulling to drag a jolt of sensation all down Azusa’s spine.

“No,” Azusa admits, trying to force her way to composure against the burn of friction sweeping all her blood to electricity, trying to find some way to resist the inexorable thrust of Tsubaki’s hand or the tug of her fingers against sensitive skin. “You’re...not bad.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Tsubaki says, and draws her hand back out of Azusa, counteracting the loss of the pressure with a pinch against the other woman’s nipple that should be painful and feels like an ache instead, that settles a coiling knot of tension low in Azusa’s stomach. Azusa takes a breath, her inhale stalling against the tension in her shoulders, and Tsubaki pushes back into her, the stretch of three fingers enough to throw all Azusa’s newfound air into a shuddering groan of reaction. Her foot skids against the sheets, seeking purchase she can’t seem to find, and Tsubaki is still moving, her touch pressing Azusa open and helpless under the weight of the sensation coiling itself to electricity along her spine.

“Tsubaki--” Azusa starts, or intends to start; she’s not sure how far she makes it before Tsubaki’s fingers twist, before Tsubaki’s hand thrusts in hard and everything in Azusa’s body whites out into a sudden jolting rush of sensation. It’s not even pleasure, for the first moment; it’s just pressure, a wave of tension rushing through her to steal her self-control, but then the satisfaction comes, curling her toes and clenching her fingers, and Azusa can’t remember enough of herself to care about the keening moan she’s making under Tsubaki’s touch.

“Mm,” Tsubaki hums, a note that should be a warning and that Azusa is too blinded by heat to parse. She draws her hand back, her fingers sliding free; and thrusts back in, another burst of sensation over too-sensitive nerves, and Azusa arches in the ache of friction too-much and not-enough at once. Tsubaki’s fingers slide down and away from her breast, against the tremor of tension in her stomach, and Azusa is gasping, wordless plea for respite or more at the same time as Tsubaki’s touch drags over her skin, down to her hips, to land unerringly against the flushed heat of her clit.

“Oh,” Azusa says, voice cracking high, “ _god_ ” and Tsubaki pushes against her, grinds friction enough to pin Azusa down to the bed in spite of the tremor of anticipation reforming itself in her tired muscles. It’s a burn, an ache, but Tsubaki doesn’t stop and Azusa doesn’t want her to, and then Tsubaki curls her fingers to press inside the other woman and that’s it, Azusa’s shuddering against the bed in another rush of heat, harder than the first one, hard enough that her exhale comes out a wail and her fingers skid and drag too-tight at Tsubaki’s shoulder, seeking for a tether to reality she can’t find for the first moment of electric friction. It’s like Resonance, to be so alight under someone else’s touch; Azusa can feel Tsubaki’s purr of delighted laughter along her spine, like they’re sharing a space, like maybe it’s Tsubaki shaking herself into exhausted satisfaction against the sheets and Azusa drawing her fingers out of the other woman with deliberate care.

Tsubaki’s come back up over the sheets before Azusa has pulled the scattered pieces of her self-awareness back inside the framework of her body, fits herself in against Azusa’s side so a few locks of dark hair spill over her shoulder to settle at the other woman’s arm. Azusa wants to find coherency, wants to reel composure back in around herself in lieu of the clothing that has ended up rumpled on the floor. But focus is hard, and words are harder, and when she turns her head Tsubaki is smiling at her, and that clears everything else out of her head in one clean sweep so all she can say is: “Can you stay?” in a tone more plea than query.

Tsubaki’s smile touches her eyes bright, turns the shadows of her eyelashes into indigo purples as she leans in closer. “Of course,” she says, instant accommodation to Azusa’s not-quite request, and fits herself against the curve of the other woman’s body.

She feels like she belongs there.


End file.
